Page 78 of Masked Sins
THE CO-HABITATION
Orion
I’m not sure how it’s possible, but the temperature has soared even more as we make our way back to my Bentley Continental—a car that Chase, my brother, sold to me a couple of years ago.
I still give him shit for charging me the market rate, but I needed a car in case I couldn’t drive my bike.
Layla and I are quiet on the drive back to her house, and I don’t bother making conversation. She needs space to process everything, so I play a Sleep Token album and let her zone out. When we pull up to her house, I jump out and open her door. The least I can do is make sure she gets inside okay. Despite not wanting to leave her alone today, I know she needs it.
When she unlocks the door, her cat Sparrow comes running to the front door… as does a wave of dry, stuffy heat.
“Crap,” she mutters, leaning down and reaching for him and picking him up. “Did the AC go out again?” she asks him as if he can answer. “You must be so uncomfortable. I’m so sorry, love,” she tells him, nuzzling her face into his.
Lucky fucking cat.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
She sighs and walks over to her thermostat after setting Sparrow down. “No. It’s eighty-seven degrees in here—my AC has been on the brink of collapse for a while.” She looks away as her cheeks heat. “I had some guy here a month ago, and he charged me four hundred dollars to tell me I needed a new unit, but I don’t have eight thousand lying around for a new one. I was hoping it would last me through the summer… it’s an old house?—”
“I have a guy. I’ll have him come take a look.” I already have my phone out, and I’m texting the contractor I use for household things.
“No, that’s okay. I know there’s financing available. I’m just not sure how soon he can get here.” She looks at Sparrow with knitted brows.
I step forward and place my hands on her shoulders. “Layla, let me take care of this. Let me take this one thing off your plate.”
She sighs and gives me a weak smile. “Fine. Thank you.”
“Does he have a carrier?” I ask, squatting down and petting the cat that looks like it got electrocuted. Layla cocks her head, and I continue. “You’re coming to stay with me.”
She stands up taller and crosses her arms. “No, that’s okay. I’ll just go to Dad’s?—”
“I have a pool,” I say smoothly, smirking. “Plus, Scott has the dog door that Sparrow climbed out of that one time.” I refer to the time Layla stayed at her dad’s for a couple of nights while she had her house painted. Sparrow had figured out how to climb through the dog door they’d put in for their old dog. Her dad hadn’t ever closed it up, and the cover was nowhere to be found.
“Yeah, you’re right. Are you sure it’s okay?”
I shrug. “It’s probably better if you stay with me, anyway. That way when Scott is ready to be picked up, we can go together.”
“Okay. Yeah. Let me just grab a few things. Sparrow has a carrier in the closet over there,” she says, pointing at the small door off the kitchen. I’ll be back in a minute.”
She disappears around a corner, and I look down at the fluffy white beast. “Hey,” I say. “What do I need to do to get on your good side? Treats? Belly rubs? Or are you going to make this difficult?”
He meows loudly, rubbing against my leg.
I laugh as I pet him, and his back arches when I run my hand over his soft fur. I’m not really a cat person, but he’s pretty cute.
“That was easy.”
Walking to the closet, I pull it open. Everything here smells like Layla. Aside from the pictures she’s posted, I haven’t ever seen what she’s done with the house. It’s veryher.Every single thing is intentionally placed—from the delicate art hung on the walls to the warm colors of the paint and furniture. The kitchen is tiny, but she somehow makes it feel cozy and homey. Plants fill every crevice and corner, blankets everywhere, string lights, and candles galore. The feminine energy is strong, and I fucking love it. It’s like she somehow created an English country cottage for herself in the middle of Los Angeles.
I peek into the other room, and there’s a reading nook in one section of her living room. A rumpled blanket has been discarded on a large reading chair, and there’s a book on the windowsill. It’s too far away to see the title, but I can almost guarantee it’s a dark romance book.
I bet she spends 90 percent of her time here, I think, smiling.
When I walk down the short hallway, I hear her shuffling around in the back bedroom, so I quickly go into the other room.
Of fucking course it’s a library—a very disorganized, work-in-progress one. Stacks of books as tall as her are against one wall, and half the room is painted a light blue color. It’s like she started to paint but lost track of time. The floor-to-ceiling, built-in shelves are bare, sanded down to the raw wood that probably came with the house. I walk in farther and see the instructions for the can of dark wood stain sitting on a stool, along with a foam brush.
Once I’m done snooping, I walk back into the hallway, looking up for the attic hatch. When I see the square, I stand on my tiptoes and push on it. It pops open, and I slide it over a couple of inches to let the hot air up while she’s away. Then I walk back into the main room and grab the plastic carrier from the closet. To my surprise, Sparrow meows and runs right into it.
